


Mirror Days

by curi_o



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Content: Alternate Universe, F/M, HP: EWE, Topics: Cohabitation, Warning: Adult Language, Warning: Discussion of Abuse, Warning: Discussion of Past Torture, Warning: Discussion of Rape, Warning: Discussion of Suicide, content: hurt/comfort, warning: minor character death
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2010-08-20
Updated: 2010-09-13
Packaged: 2017-11-08 12:29:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,672
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/443204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curi_o/pseuds/curi_o
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <div class="center">
  <img/>
</div><p>This is not a story in which falling in love saves the hero. Draco Malfoy couldn't save himself, let alone another human being, and you, Hermione Jean Granger, have used up your super-hero power. This is a story in which some people die, some people almost die, and some people choose to live.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Language, Adult Themes. This narrative has some discussion of attempted suicide. Though usually referenced in passing only, there is at least one section that explores the subject at greater depth. Readers who are especially sensitive to such content are advised to read with caution. Other potentially upsetting elements include rape, torture, and other war-related atrocities. Characters die before the story begins. There is no Molly-bashing and, because it is a convenient plot element, Lucius is cruel. And not in a fun way.
> 
> Notes: This story has been in development for ages. It owes much to Sage’s The Fallout. Additional inspiration comes from all over the place, as I have read enough fic to know that few plot devices or character descriptions can really be called new. If you think you see a nod to something you recognize, you probably do.

The war lasts years.

The war lasts so long that you begin to believe the world has always been dead and hideous.

You dream in greys and blacks and reds and sometimes sickly green mists. Your dreams clash. They are full of deafening silence. At least twice a week, you watch yourself point a thin rod (made of wood and dragon and something that is undeniably _other_ ) at Molly Weasley, close your eyes, and say the Avada. It is little comfort to know that your victim was never Molly—an unfamiliar follower of Voldemort's, once you could look—because you _knew_ it was her, and you did not hesitate.

Besides, Molly Weasley's memorial urn has had a place in Headquarters' improvised memorial hall for six months now, and her death was at hands decidedly _not_ your own.

Which is not to say that you are an innocent. Besides the incident with the not-Molly (flaxen hair, unfocused blue eyes, orange-lipsticked mouth open in a shout or a snarl or perhaps even a laugh) you are more comfortable pushing such Latin phrases (orders, curses, _blessings_ ) from between your teeth and lips than you had ever feared you'd be.

So maybe there was a time before the war.

It hardly matters now.

* * *

You watch the blond with detached interest. He is trembling and wet, curled inward like an unborn child pulled from a dead mother's womb. 

( _Macbeth_ , you think, and you've seen it happen. Another war orphan, an infant disappeared into the Tunnels.) 

You want to smother him. Then he might have a chance to escape.

 _Escape._ It's what _you_ would choose if you were brave. 

It would be a mercy. 

You sigh and turn to fill the handbasin with warm water.

It was Severus Snape whose banging at the gate interrupted you. Not that your task was time-sensitive, not contemplation of the lengths of cords among the artifacts of your parents’ lives. You were attempting to identify those thick and strong enough to make suitable substitute ropes.

(Not that you would mention this to anyone even if you could. They would interpret it as the first stages of another attempt on your own life. You’ve already determined that a future attempt would involve less pain.)

The charmed mirror would have shattered had you not been standing on the horrible shag rug your mother bought when you were five. Strangely, you were startled—not panicked—to see your former Potions professor soaked and frantic just outside the border of the wards.

You pulled your wand from its perch in your hair and opened a hole in the outer ring of spells. The mirror allowed you to watch Snape’s progress through the rain across your lawn, his native grace hindered by an awkward burden. 

He stayed no more than ten minutes. By the time he left, your world had gained another layer of chaos.

And now here you are, playing nursemaid to the son of the monster's own pet monster. 

You sigh again and lay a warm cloth across his forehead.


	2. Two

The first time you thought you understood tragedy, a house-elf named Dobby devoted himself to the service of Harry Potter, sir, despite the physical pain his decisions earned him. You were young enough to believe in justice and equality and the power of good intentions—and old enough to waste your time trying.

Then Sirius Black died, and the whole sorry mess of Harry's history hit you like a Bludger to the gut. Parents dead because of a vague prophecy and a power-hungry madman; one of four close friends to blame, another forced to pay. So many promising young lives forfeit, and you wouldn't let it happen again. You were young enough to hope and old enough to commit yourself to the cause.

The next year saw the Headmaster gone and, three years later, Minerva followed. You were starting to think you'd run out of people to lose, or that the universe couldn't be so cruel, or that your debt had been paid, but the people kept dying. Whoever was writing your story had seriously fucked up. Everyone knows you've got to leave a few people standing to appreciate the shiny new world after victory.

And then Mum and Dad and _Molly_ , and you were coming up short on role models. Ron was twitchy with you, and Harry was just tense, and, really, what use were you to anyone? A waste of space and resources, and it was high time you did _something_ to contribute. You'd always thought one of the hero's sidekicks would die, anyway; it was just as well you, with no family left of which to speak.

Now you know that _tragedy_ is just a three-syllable word for life.

* * *

You are curled tightly in the overstuffed armchair, your arms around your calves and your head against your knees, too exhausted to cry.

"Miss Granger?"

The voice startles you and you reach for your wand, pretending at alertness. Battle reflexes. 

The speaker is not your houseguest. Draco Malfoy is still on the transfigured sofa, fitful and feverish. You have done what you can. 

"The wall, Miss Granger," the voice says again, and now you remember.

Every memory from that time is filtered through a deadening haze, as though the voices had been moderated with concern for a sleeping child. The Order sought a solution to the Hermione Problem, and Tonks argued that solitude— _and all those complex spells_ —would keep you safe from the world and yourself. 

On the other hand, isolation might make your depression worse. 

(The Order has learned about Depression—the clinical, potentially fatal kind—in the last few years. Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, too. Yet another spoil of war.)

In any event, there were any number of situations under which the Order might need to contact you. Surely a regular messenger who could also serve as an occasional companion would be a good idea?

Which is why you are now hearing Minerva McGonagall's Scottish burr from your hallway.

You rise and make your way to Minerva's portrait, calling her name in a sleepy-sounding question.

"It's a bit dark, isn't it?" she hints.

You reach for the light switch. When you look again at the small portrait of your favorite professor, you stifle the urge to sigh. Her favorite hat, one of those rare things Muggles have correct about proper witches, is perched atop her grey hair, spectacles and stern expression.

"Has something happened, Minerva?" Your question is hesitant. You are not in the right frame of mind for Bad News. 

"No, dear." She is quick to reassure you, Handle-With-Care Hermione. "The Order received word about unusual activity among the DE contingent and wanted to make sure you remain safe."

You are suddenly irritated. "Yes, well, it's not as though I'm in any particular danger from the outside world, is it? Not while I'm trapped in my padded cell."

Minerva looks chagrined. "Miss—" 

You scowl at her. She begins again. 

"Hermione, the record shows several warding spells failing simultaneously last night. It was only for a moment, but—"

"I'm fine, as you can very well see. Bored out of my skull and all, but that's to be expected when I've nothing productive to do, isn't it?" You are fully aware of the pout in your voice. You don't care.

Why don’t you want to tell Minerva about Malfoy and Snape? You aren’t sure, except that you are suddenly terrified the Order will take this from you, too. You will keep Malfoy—and Snape—for yourself.

For now.

"Look," you say. "Tell everyone that I'm fine, the Big Bad Wolf hasn't huffed or puffed, and that I'm—recovering—or whatever they want."

Minerva looks confused. "The Big Bad what?" 

She shakes her head. The gesture reminds you of shaking an Etch-a-Sketch to clear the canvas. Fixing you with a gaze that is both stern and compassionate, she harrumphs.

"I am not in the habit of lying to the Order, and I do not expect to begin now.

"However," she continues, cutting off whatever you had thought to say, "I will inform the interested parties that you are not unwell, if you agree to my terms. First, when I return in a week, I want those dark bruises under your eyes to be gone. That means that you will be eating healthy foods and sleeping a proper amount—and doing both regularly. Second, you must get some sunlight. All the Healers I have ever known agree that lack of exposure to the sun is most detrimental to well being.”

“But—”

"As I'm sure you know,” Minerva barrels on, “your first-year Charms textbook contains at least one spell for simulating sunlight. You should be able to combine it with a transfigured globe to ensure that you receive an adequate amount of exposure. Finally, I would like you to begin a research project on any topic of your choice and prepare a ten-minute oral report for our next meeting."

You take this in and consider. 

Finally, you decide. "Your terms are acceptable. I apologize for my attitude. There was no call for such behavior."

The painted expression softens again. "My dear girl, I understand. We all understand. We simply want to see you well again. No one expects you to forget what has happened.”

She heaves a weary sigh. Watching a portrait sigh is strange; a painted person cannot breathe, after all. Maybe it’s habit.

"Sometimes, I wonder if you are more human than those who have continued to fight this war. You feel it all so deeply. Or maybe you are taking on everyone's grief. I do not know."

Her expression is far away for a moment and then refocuses on you. "Hermione, I must go. I am needed elsewhere."

She hesitates before leaving. “I expect you to remember that you are loved. If you ever have need of me, you must only call. If I had but had a daughter—"

And then you are alone, sagging against the wall opposite an empty frame.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is not finished. Publishing before completion is a sin I try to avoid, but in this case, it might prove to be the prod I need. Several significant scenes have been written. Should any readers feel inclined to drag me through writing the rest of it, I will gladly accept your assistance. Thank you to all who have given input thus far.


End file.
